My Hands On You
by IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: "I won't hold back," Malfoy warned, although it landed closer to a promise, and if it was supposed to scare Harry away, it missed its mark by a mile. The last thing he needed was for him to hold back — in any way. "Good," Harry agreed. "Neither will I."


**Author's Note: This is just something that's been flowing around my head, begging to be written down. For some reason, I think Harry and Draco beating the shit out of each other would be hot as fuck. So there you go. Hope you guys liked it. Xoxo.**

* * *

If someone asked him if the fight had been premeditated, Harry could probably answer that it hadn't. He probably wouldn't be lying, too. Probably. After all, Harry Potter would never start a fight on purpose — not after the war, not after so much blood had been spilled, not in the hallway of a school he had sworn to protect, and definitely not with Draco Malfoy. Harry had learned his lesson in the hardest way possible: the world was already a dark enough place without the added trouble on his part.

Then why was he lying on an infirmary bed, spotting a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder while nursing two fingers from his right hand which were in a wholly unnatural position? Worst still, why wasn't he regretting the whole thing? Instead, why was a feeling of satisfaction coiling around his chest, fast and warm?

It shouldn't have been that way — it shouldn't have happened. Harry had been trying. Since September, when classes started once more and Harry stepped inside of Hogwarts again as a student and not like a… not like before. He had been trying, in all possible ways, to pretend everything had gone back to the way it used to be. That everything was normal. He went to his classes, he ate in the Great Hall, he did his homework, he ignored the sick way most of the students followed him around — as if Harry was their personal hero.

Maybe he didn't perform those tasks with a smile plastered on his face — as he should — pretending to be utterly satisfied with his new life, but it wasn't as though he hadn't been trying.

However, no one warned him how hard it was to live an ordinary life. Perhaps before the whole war thing, an ordinary life had been exactly what the kid of his childhood, who tried his best to fit in, wanted and needed. But, after all he had seen and done, how could people expect any sort of normal or calm reaction from him? It would simply be impossible to forget all that had happened to adopt the posture of a happy citizen.

Weirdly enough, though, Harry appeared to be the only one experiencing difficulties adapting to the new era. What to him seemed to be an unbearable, untenable goal, to his friends came across as the natural progression of life. More than that — they all seemed to be breathing freely for the first time in their lives, as though Voldermort's death had been the permission they needed to relax and inhale the fresh oxygen offered by the beautiful world they lived in.

They all lived in a perfect bubble, where everything had a purpose and made sense, wheres Harry wondered, lost amid the empty space, not knowing what to do with himself without the dangers directing his life.

All, except Malfoy. Obviously.

The Slytherin was the only one who carried on in the exact same manner as before — like the war hadn't ended and at any minute a Death Eater could apparate in the middle of one of Hogwart's stairways. Malfoy, much like Harry, was always silent. Other than a few whispered words in response to one of his friend's questions, Harry had yet to hear a single word come out of his rival's mouth.

It was suspicious. Suspicious and weird. Or maybe Harry was trying — much like he tried so many things these days — to convince himself that it was suspicious and weird, in a considerable effort not to admit that it was annoying. Not hearing Malfoy's pitched, stupid voice was even more annoying that the groups of girls who followed him around wherever he when, asking for photos and autographs. Which was pathetic, really. Harry didn't need anything Malfoy had to offer.

Nothing at all.

Is wasn't as if he had provoked the Slytherin on several different opportunities, eagerly waiting for the moment he would react with anything other than the flat, inscrutable stare which had become his default response to all stimuli. Is wasn't as if Harry spent all his meals staring at the blond, observing all his moves and expressions, anticipating the slip second their eyes would invariably meet. It wasn't as if Harry ignored all the well-intentioned bits of advice from his best friends, telling him to leave Malfoy alone. No, of course not. That wasn't the type of behavior expected from the man who had defeated the Dark Lord.

Pathetic.

"Mister Potter, how nice to see you awake," Madame Pomfrey said, even though her dry voice suggested that she wasn't pleased with his presence in her infirmary once more.

"I wouldn't have passed out if someone hadn't hit me with a spell in the back," Harry pointed out, unhappy with himself. He shouldn't have been so unaware of his surroundings as to be hit with an unknown spell like that.

Constant vigilance.

"Perhaps your situation isn't clear enough, Mister Potter, but you were caught in the middle of the castle, in broad daylight, mounting on top of another student and assaulting him. It took both Headmistress McGonagall and myself to separate the two of you."

"I wasn't—," he began, but a movement coming from his left side called his attention, and when he turned his head, Malfoy, who was lying on the bed next to his, was looking right at him, a huge, red bruise covering his face. Harry froze — the words dying on his lips. There was no reason to be mesmerized by the sight. None, at all.

Pomfrey was waving her wand around in his peripheral vision, casting spell after spell on him, something which usually got him tense and nervous, even if the person was someone he knew and trusted. However, weirdly, at the moment, all he could do was stare at the blond, trapped in the grey eyes examining him with a calculating look, as if reevaluating him.

It was disconcerting. They weren't doing anything, but it felt like they were, like it was a forbidden thing better left hidden from others.

Then the corners of Malfoy's mouth tugged upwards in a smug, satisfied small grin. "Should I apologize?" He asked in a challenging voice, daring Harry to take offense.

And instead of anger or disgust — which were appropriate responses to have when someone beat the fuck out of him and then laughed about it — Harry felt a shiver of arousal going down his snipe as he watched the way Malfoy's lips moved around the words. His prim and proper accent, his perfect diction, his deep tone… it was way more inviting than it should be, and Harry wanted to reach out, and bite, and suck his neck until his fair skin flushed a deep purple.

"Only if you regret it," Harry finally said, almost wincing at how wrecked his own voice sounded in comparison. There was no mistaking his tone — even an idiot would be able to notice he was affected. Badly.

Thankfully, Pomfrey ignored them, still focused on Harry's arm, and so, didn't see the way Malfoy's smirk widened until it became quite obscene, his eyes shining brightly.

"The day I regret putting my hands on you is yet to come, Potter," he purred lowly, shaking his head to get the hair off his eyes.

Fuck. Harry closed his eyes, willing his blood to remain on his brain and not on his dick. He would not pop a boner in the infirmary — not when he knew McGonagall would show up at any second to drag them to her office for an explanation.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry demanded — only it was closer to a plead, and when McGonagall strode inside, all flowing robes and stern eyes, the blond was still laughing, sounding quite pleased with himself.

In the end, Harry walked to her office with a boner, each step more painful than the previous one, all while cursing the entire Slytherin house for their mere existence.

* * *

The speech had obviously been planned in the time they had spent in the infirmary, 'cause the second they sat down, the Headmistress unleashed the longest lecture of Harry's life, going on and on about proper behavior and how '_utterly unacceptable_' it was for Harry to attack a fellow student in that manner. Obviously, despite giving just as good as he took, Malfoy was being treated like the victim, which put Harry in the weird position of being the abuser.

That part of the lecture, more than anything else, seemed to anger the blond enough to get him to snap and interrupt the Headmistress.

"It was consensual," Malfoy stated, and he looked quite bored, as though having to give explanations for his actions was beneath him.

McGonagall frowned. "Consensual?" She asked, as though testing the words, and when he remained silent, his previous words still standing, she added: "Mister Malfoy, I don't think I have to remind you that fighting is against school policies."

"We weren't fighting. We were…" Malfoy stopped, clearly searching for the words. He turned and locked eyes with Harry once more. When he spoke, he sounded amused. "Letting out some steam, one might say. Not unlike the rough-housing we see many Gryffindors partake in around the school."

"You both had broken noses and many other serious injuries Madam Pomfrey had to treat. She has an important job that doesn't include treating the results of out-of-control rough-housing between students."

The Slytherin shrugged, and damn him for making even that look snobby. "Well, Professor, if you hadn't interfered, we would've been fine treating our own cuts, and we wouldn't have bothered Madam Pomfrey."

"Mister Potter, do you have anything to say for yourself?" She asked, a tick in her forehead.

He didn't. Harry had nothing to say for himself. He was still coming to terms with the fact that he had, indeed, cornered Malfoy in the middle of a corridor and threw the first punch, going for the violence with so much easy it was embarrassing. There had been no finesse, no expertise, nothing. Only the need to punch that pointy chin just to see how it felt under his hands.

He wouldn't say that, obviously.

"Malfoy's right," he said, wishing he could bite the words and prevent them from leaving his mouth. "We were fine. There was no need to get involved."

"Involved?" McGonagall looked ready to murder them. "Was I supposed to allow two of my students to bleed out all over my school? Do I need to repeat myself? Fights among the students are strictly forbidden — and no, I do not categorize what happened as rough-housing."

"Perhaps the definition needs to be expanded to accommodate the strength of people who fought a war," Harry snapped, way sharper than he intended. Malfoy was observing his every move, amusement irradiating from his very pores, and Harry's hand began to twitch with the need to punch him again, and it was distracting.

So fucking distracting.

McGonagall blinked in surprise, leaning back against her chair, shocked by his words and probably by his tone. Dumbledore had always been the one to deal with his temper, so she most likely had no idea how out of control he could get, given the proper incentive. Before she could say a word, though, Malfoy widened his stance, his right leg coming to rest against Harry's, discretely but clearly there, and that was it. Harry was done.

"Professor," Harry said, tersely, forgetting himself. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to snap. I'll accept full responsibility for the incident, and I'll attend whichever detection you feel are necessary. May we be excused for the evening, though?"

Malfoy added. "Not fully. If detention is deemed… necessary, I suppose it would only be fair that I also attend," he said, and not without a touch of sarcasm.

The headmistress's eyes traveled back and forth between them, all reproach and dissatisfaction. She wasn't happy, and it showed. However, she also seemed perplexed, as though she couldn't understand what was happening and it grated her nerves, which Harry could empathize. He too had no idea what was going on.

All he knew was that he needed to leave that room asap; otherwise, he would jump Malfoy all over again right there, at her office, and not even her spells would be enough to pry him away, goddammit.

"Very well," she conceded, with a tired sigh. "You shall both attend detention with Argus. I'll arrange and make sure you are informed. For now, you're both dismissed."

The words were barely out, and Harry was already up, eager to leave. "Great," he said. "Goodnight, Professor."

He barely registered the blond following him out the door, down the stairs, into another corridor, until a hand grabbed his wrist, halting his quick steps.

"Going somewhere, Potter?" Malfoy asked.

Harry lasted two seconds. Two seconds in which he promised himself he would not turn around and meet Malfoy's eyes, not when he knew what the vision would be. It was futile, however, 'cause all it took was a tighter squeeze to his wrist, and his eyes popped open, going straight for the target.

And damn if Malfoy didn't look just as eager as he did.

Then he spoke. "I hear the Room of Requirement is still working."

Nine words. Nine words spoken with clear intent and Harry folded like a poorly stacked house of cards. In a flash, his blood was rushing and all thoughts of going to his room to get some — any — sleep fled his mind. He wouldn't go anywhere now. Not with a proposition like that.

"It is," he rasped, taking a step closer. Malfoy didn't release his wrist, and he didn't try to escape the grasp. "It is."

"I won't hold back," Malfoy warned, although it landed closer to a promise, and if it was supposed to scare Harry away, it missed its mark by a mile. The last thing he needed was for him to hold back — in any way.

"Good," Harry agreed. "Neither will I."

It was a vow, a pledge, an oath, all rolled into one, his voice no louder than a whisper which was being uttered against Malfoy's mouth. The air between them crackled with tension and magic — literally. As soon as the blond's wet breath touched his lips, Harry's hold on his magic faltered, and suddenly resisting was not even an option, so he didn't even try.

Harry shifted, grabbing Malfoy by the waist and slamming him against the stone wall behind him, caging him there. There were no words exchanged. When his hand went for the hairs on Malfoy's nape, the blond had already lowered his head and crushed their lips together.

It was violent and rough, and there were more teeth, spit, and blood than any other kiss Harry had ever had, and, _shit_, it was perfect.


End file.
